


Skin

by paperboxes



Category: The Evil Within (Video Game)
Genre: Masturbation, Other, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 17:16:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5464565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperboxes/pseuds/paperboxes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ruben Victoriano never asked to be human. Nor did he ask to experience selfish human desires. But he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skin

**Author's Note:**

> A small drabble written as a gift for my dear friend. Basically just filth, but with Ruvik's pretentious ass way of talking about it.

The moment I came to terms with the task I was bound to fulfill, whether by some kind of sick destiny or my own free will, I learnt to cut off; to separate from what makes a human, _human_.  
Food. Comfort. Shelter. Pleasure.  
Self indulgence of any kind was sacrificed for utter persistence. I enjoyed no longer the bitter kiss of wine, nor the caress of another's hand against my own. That was all behind me now - I was forced to learn the art of becoming a machine. It worked for the first month of my project, while I was still dependent on Jimenez's help with my mobility. He acted as an aid to my work, lifting me from room to room so I wouldn't tear the broken flesh on my inner thighs when I tried to walk. It stopped hurting when the skin thickened, pulled taut and firm, but I fussed anyway. It was more of an inconvenience and fear of septicemia from my contact with my patients' innermost workings entering my bloodstream. I wasn't so much afraid to die as I was afraid my work would be left unfinished. STEM _had_ to continue, by any means necessary.

But the transition from human to machine is not programmed into our capabilities - humans are, by nature, wretched and self indulgent. Denying ourselves what our bodies want, only giving them what they need, is just as maddening as being locked in a silent room. I had been free for years, yet I felt almost the same grievance as before, but the root of my frustration was unknown. Every _cry_ , every _scream_ of the bound flesh that lay before me day in, day out, no longer had the power to satisfy me as it once did. My patients were strange creatures in my mind; when I began my experiments as a young man, there was a sensuality to my procedures. I talked to them, made them feel things, waited for their responses, examined them closely. They became my world in the hour or so I entertained them before tipping them into oblivion; some dying in fear, and some in epicurean bliss. Each would engulf my unfeeling skin in a placebo of tremors that laboured my breathing and weakened my legs. The first time was a shock, I remember falling backwards at the sudden jolts of something that wracked my body. I inquired with Jimenez that I might have experienced some kind of stroke, but he let out that _revolting_ bark of a laugh and left me to my own devices.

I left the perplexing reactions, not thinking much of them. They occurred frequently, and I will not deny conducting more than twice the amount of experiments I would usually in one day, chasing the sensation. But it was dangerous - letting indulgences occupy my mind and my intentions. Focusing on Laura was all that mattered, she had to be my only reason for working, for _being_. As the years went by, the feeling faded, and was replaced by a churning void in my abdomen, eating away at my insides. It was like I needed something I could not have. There was something more I wanted, closer than the screaming, the crying, the begging. Purely scientific curiosity, paired with a genuine frustration caused my thoughts to wander one evening, as I was waiting for Jimenez to arrive with new patients to take care of. It was rare I acquired any time of day I was not working, sleeping, or bathing in salt water for my wretched skin, that I had any time to myself at all. When work was not a concern for the time being; everything had been planned and drawn and prepared, my only job was to simply wait. I have never been a patient man, and like a bored child I lost interest in sitting in the hallway, thinking perhaps I could just try something I had wondered about for far longer than I would care to admit.

My bedroom was easier to reach than the night before, somehow. The sweet metal click of the lock was like a gentle burst of relief; there was no-one here, but this privacy was sacred. It was the first three hours I had ever had to myself. Unraveling the stifling bandages was less of a dreadful chore, and more of a treat. I couldn't feel the fabric rolling slowly from my bound body to pool on the floor below, but I closed my eyes, and tried to picture it. I thought about silk - the way it used to feel on my skin, how I could sink into the softness and instantly be lulled into a peaceful rest. The memory made me sleepy - but not to a point of exhaustion. It was a pleasant haze of fatigue, billowing like a cloud around me, and I sighed. _Contented_.

My bed was welcoming and familiar, but I had no plans to sleep until every alcove of my alien body was explored. Relieved. And every knot inside me loosened. My mental justification was how greatly it would improve my focus, but I know deep down I was curious. I turned away from the door, half in shame, and half so I would not have to lock eyes with anyone who might require explanation for my actions. There was no sensation; hands devoid of feeling fumbled against my sternum and hipbones. But the bare skin scattered around my body was frighteningly hot; I almost wanted to stop for fear of overheating, but seemingly against my own will and better judgement I could do nothing but keep going. Further down, to my thighs I had no recollection of parting consciously. The scalded hands felt strange against the untouched skin there, something like swollen sandpaper, but there was at least some sensation. I had more options - ideas I had only entertained for a matter of moments before biblical shame would wrack it from me. But there were no eyes to witness my deeds but my own; free at last, to do as I please. With that thought still echoing, a hollow comfort amidst unshakable abashment and a feeling of scandal, I turned onto my stomach, and trembling in something more than just humiliation, my fingers rose to my lips of their own accord. Every ridge and crack was sensitive on my tongue, the appendage rarely used for anything at all, let alone something to evoke such a sparkling sensation. There were sounds, stuck in my throat, muffled by my own hand I couldn't control, nor bring myself to want to control. For the first time, I desired to be taken by a force out of my own jurisdiction - to let up my nature as a control freak, and _feel_. Just for a few hours.

And my hands came to life on their own, exploring where the thought of which caused me to cringe into the pillow supporting my chest. Until that deep, bone-crushing bliss returned, devouring my senses with each tease and caress. In my loud expression of pleasure, there was little else I could do but allow myself to cry out at the pushing violation, rocking back. Wanting more of the tearing pain following each shot of decadence that jolted my spine and had me gasping for air in seconds. My machines were nothing compared to the gratification offered up by my own being, spearing two, three, four. One after the other. Everything melted together into a blur of something luxury and spectacular, my weeps and moans lifted into the air, elevated in rising volume and pitch until I could no longer recognize the sound of my own voice, and every shock wave was a burst of relief that I could still feel something. The goodness lasted only as long as I was able to keep my rigid body focused on lasting, savouring. The moment my resolve slipped, I was engulfed, crying, babbling. The sheer relief swept like a warm tide, drowning my senses. The orgasm might have lasted for hours, I would not know, I was lost in every second it rolled through me, my free hand pulling at the sheets I had bitten at some point in my ecstasy. My blood pounded in my ears, I could hear it flowing as I came down from the high, sinking into the covers a trembling mess, saliva trailing down my chin and tears still cascading freely onto the pillow. My abdomen was soaked, dripping with a thick, warm fluid I found myself less appalled by, and more contented at how it added to the sensual high of doing something utterly distasteful and filthy. It was a shame I loved every second of.

Catching my breath was seemingly impossible, and with every gasp for air spilled another groan, as if I were hoping to be heard. With an agony temporarily lifted, I allowed exhaustion to take me, falling into the embrace of a deep, warm sleep, that my body had so desperately needed all these years.


End file.
